The Cleansing
by late edition
Summary: Mankind has nearly been wiped off the earth. Eight survivors remain, Spencer and Ashley among them. Ashley is sick and most certainly going to die, but Spencer is determined to beat the odds and save her. The clock is ticking and time’s running out.
1. Prologue

**Title:** The Cleansing  
**Author:** late edition  
**Rating:** R or M  
**Summary:** Mankind has nearly been wiped off the earth. Eight survivors remain, Spencer and Ashley among them. Ashley is sick and most certainly going to die, but Spencer is determined to beat the odds and save her. The clock is ticking and time's running out.

- - - -

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **I started this story after watching _I Am Legend_ and feeling inspired. My girlfriend, Julie came to visit me and we found this story buried deep in the files of my computer. With her help, this prologue was edited and reworked to start a story I will hopefully actually finish. Goodness knows, that girl has gotten me to do harder things before. This one will actually be beta'd by the GF, so it should be a painless read for you grammar geeks out there. Except the A/N because I'm a nice GF and I don't make her edit those! :) This is a bit different from my usual style, so please don't be alarmed. Although I'm sure the occasional wisecrack should find its way into the dialogue. Feedback is appreciated and constructive criticism is my crack

Without further ado, onto the story!

- - - -

**PROLOGUE ; PROMISES, PROMISES**

There's a virus inside all of us.

I've seen it–I've seen it in my family, in my friends and in _her_.

It's a virus that _lives_, that _breathes_, that _devours_ the human body, until there's nothing left but bone, tissue, and red, red blood. Until there's nothing but a cold, lifeless shell–an empty casing reverberating emptiness and solitude.

For what good is a body without a soul?

The virus has yet to take me, but it will eventually — any day now. My life is lived through a measure of how many days I can survive before . . . before the end.

I can feel it coming; it's at the edge of my vision like a constant, hulking shadow.

It's waiting.

We're all waiting now, though. Not just the virus, but all of us — we're just waiting. The eight survivors – the last people – those who have defied death and plan on slipping him a rather apologetic tardy note later like students making amends for playing hooky.

Who would have thought _any_ of us would survive? Better yet, who could have imagined we would have lasted this long? Eleven long years have gone by and here we are, the chosen ones–the lucky ones. Who decides we're lucky? I don't even know. I don't think any of us can be considered lucky, we're anything but that–each day we wake up in total terror, unsure if this day is our last. Each night we go to bed, afraid that we won't wake up in the morning.

I can tell you that this is no way to live.

At least the dead can claim they are finally at peace. In this world, for the living, there is no peace.

Eleven years later and we still remain like bedraggled, befuddled ships in the prevaricating eye of a wild hurricane.

Who could have thought such a thing? Certainly not the refugees themselves – they ambled along the vast, empty world like dreamers within a nightmare, protected by a hidden, unseen force. Their eyes are landscapes of wide openness, as if in a state of invariant surprise – the nonchalance directed toward life was no longer available – no longer offered. It's hard for them–for _us_–to believe that they're still here–that _we're_ still here.

We, once known as ignorant, selfish beings, have finally begun to understand what a precious thing the ability to live is. We as human beings know that being able to breathe and to be of a conscious state of mind are the ultimate abilities–the ultimate gifts. We know this because we have been lying in purgatory for so long–trapped in a state of nothingness, of complete and utter absence from the world around us. Flowers still bloom, trees still sway in the autumn breeze, and animals still hold court in meadows and forests everywhere. Only us, the humans, the undeserving, were affected in the great purge of mankind.

And yet – we, the survivors, are all still just waiting — just waiting to die. We know the gift of our lives, but we no longer want them.

We're so tired but we cannot rest, not truly. Our guilt weights upon our lids, prying them open and forcing them to stare out at the world we no longer want to inhabit. Not without the others . . . Oh, those poor innocent people–long dead, long gone, but so many of us miss them so. Sometimes, some nights, it feels like they're still here. Parents, lovers, friends–we miss them all, we see them like flickering candlelight through a sheer veil. So close and yet untouchable, unreachable.

We're sick but we cannot heal. All doctors are dead. They, strangely, were the first to go ... My mother among them. _Oh, Mom . . ._

We're cold but we cannot warm. The sun has burnt out, and yet there is light. Ever present, awful artificial light.

We live in the land of the unsatisfied when we should count ourselves lucky ... lucky to even breathe the air.

Most of us have already succumbed to bittersweet fate but the unlucky ones . . . well, they still trudge on — _waiting, __**waiting**_ for something that we loathe and love in turmoil.

She's still here, _barely_. I can see the virus in her eyes – sweet honey becomes black, black becomes purple, and purple becomes blood red– a symbol of the life that has been taken, morphed, and turned into it's enemy: **Death**.

Death hangs on every word; death breathes in every mouth; death is the enemy, the comrade, and the trusted.

- - - -

Death is everywhere. I can feel it – see it – taste it. It's a friend and it's a foe.

The computer that I chronicle upon blinks, before it begins to fizzle away – dying slowly, like her, right before my naked eyes. It groans and I know it's pain! Oh, how I know! Every time I look at her! I can sense pain, and anguish, and a throbbing so deep it pounds and grinds my own limbs until they ache and creak like those of a woman thrice my age.

She's sleeping so soundly, with her crimson irises bold in the constant light – I wish she would close them, just for a short while, but I know it pains her. She wants to hide them so badly, for they're an ugly and mocking annotation to changing of her innocent beauty, but even the slightest wink sends her perfect, angelic face into a fit of agony.

I walk over to the bed, my slippered feet padding lightly on the hardwood floors. I want to say her name, but I think she does not know it anymore. She knows only the pain, and only the agony.

She is to lost me. I am lost to her. We are on separate islands, divided by an unseen and cowardly force.

The virus.

Oh, yes, I've almost forgotten the virus. It's so familiar now that one can almost just — just ignore it. It's a part of the scenery, like the hard, sepia-tinted ground or the more present smog. It's a concrete wall erected so long ago that we have forgotten it's true purpose.

I reach out, touch her, and feel the life ebbing slowly out of her. It isn't fair. I wasn't supposed to lose her, not so soon and never to such a cowardly parasite.

I close my eyes and swallow a painful sob. To cry now would to be accept defeat, and I cannot do that. Not when I'm so close . . .

So close to what?

A cure.

I have to find the cure. I have to be the one that saves us all. There has to be a reason I remain unaffected. I don't believe in pure coincidence; I don't believe in random acts of fate. I believe in purpose and in order and in God. I may not be the ideal Christian but I know that this isn't a godless world–there has to be a reason some of us are still left.

We must have a purpose. We must have something left to do. Why else would we be here? I cannot believe that we are left here simply to mourn and to wait.

I know my purpose, my something. My 'something' is to save this wheezing girl, to bring her back to me and hold her once again. I release her wrist and it falls limply to her side.

"I'll save you," I whisper, "I'll save you and bring you back to me."

I listen, hoping for some sort of sign she'd heard me. I hold my breath, my entire body stilling at my command. There! A twitch at her lips, a muffled groan–she heard me! She must have!

I lean down, kissing the corner that had moved and said, "I promise."

- - - -

**Author's Note:** That's it! Let me know what you think! Feedback (I repeat) is appreciated, even if it's: I luv story. Write more. PMS!!eleven!!one!

Sincerely,  
late edition.


	2. King Arthur, The Cowardly

**DISCLAIMER:**

Aiden: "Why am I such a tool in all your stories? Hey, I get shot in this story and in that story I'm basically retarded. Why are you so mean?"  
late edition: "Because I hate you. Now let me infect you with the Virus – mwhahahahaha! Oh, hello there, dear reader!" -_hides syringe_- "Aiden and I ... well -- we were just playing doctor..."

Nope, I don't own it!

A huge **thank you** to my GF for editing it. You should check out her stories! Her penname is _theselittlewords_. :)

- - - -

**CHAPTER ONE ; KING ARTHUR, THE COWARDLY**

_**Eleven years earlier . . .**_

"_In other news, a strange illness has been appearing in various states this past year. People from all over have been affected and are showing strange symptoms including high fever, changes in eye color, and loss of consciousness. Authorities are saying that if you or anyone you know are experiencing these symptoms, you should contact your local hospital __immediately__." _

My father loved watching the news. I could always find him seated in front of our expensive flat-screen television for the six o'clock broadcast; a dark, strained look overshadowing his normally cheery expression. Usually there was a glass of scotch on the coffee table in front of him and a folded-up _Times_ beside it.

I can't blame him for looking so depressed though. The news these days is never good. People everywhere are suffering and no one really gives a damn. I stopped watching the news ages ago, it's like getting a daily dosage of actual reality–a daily reminder of how much the world really sucks and how some people are just too horrible to comprehend.

Right now, the main story is about the rape and killing of a six year old girl. I listen to the gruesome details as I fix myself a snack in our open, connecting kitchen. "They think her father did it," my dad says from his leather armchair, his glass of scotch clinking as it rises to his lips. For a second, I wonder if he's even talking to me, or just mumbling drunkenly to himself.

As if to answer my question, he leans back and looks at me with sad blue eyes. "What kind of father can kill and rape his own child? It's sickening. They're about to interview him. Watch."

_Why?_ I want to ask. What knowledge could I possibly garner from this experience? My dad sees my stormy expression, the defiance peeking out from the corners of my frowning lips, and he laughs softly. "I just wanted you to see that things here really aren't so bad. I mean, your mother and I are certainly not the best parents, but at least we're not . . ."

I can no longer bite my tongue. A hot retort claws its way out before I can rein it back in. "No Dad, you're not a killer or a rapist. You're just a drunk, unemployed, self-pitying pacifist. And Mom's committing adultery, she never comes home anymore, and she tries to mask it all with simple workaholic-symptoms, but hey, at least she isn't killing anyone right?"

For a moment, we keep our eyes locked. Shock registers on my father's face, because I have never been so brash or rude to anyone, not even to my two annoying older brothers. His mouth opens and closes like a fish, and I turn on my heel, leaving the plate of unfinished sandwich fixings on the counter. Glen, my eldest brother, will probably finish making it later anyway. Although, according to him, he _never_ eats anymore because Dad is too drunk to fix him anything.

I stomp up the stairs to my room. Brushing past Clay without any sort of explanation for my rudeness, I slam my door shut and lean back against it, huffing with indignation and shame. I couldn't believe I had called my father a drunkard to his face. Glen said it all the time, behind his back and to his face, but Clay and I preferred to ignore my father's issue with alcohol. We got this trait from our mother, who liked to close her eyes and stick her fingers in her ears whenever a family issue or dilemma reared its ugly head. Plus she had enough of her own problems, juggling work and a boyfriend. What was so great about her boyfriend Ben anyway? Sure he was rich and lived in a nice house, but after talking to him at my sweet sixteen birthday party–oh yeah, Mom even had the balls to bring her boyfriend to my birthday party–I found him to have the personality of a corpse.

Ashley said it was just a phase my mother was going through. According to Ashley, my mom just wanted to be young and wild again, and Ben was her outlet to do so. Well, to me, Ben was anything but young or wild–he was stuffy like my grandparent's house in summer. I wouldn't be surprised if he complained all the time, too. He seemed like the type.

I think that my mom was just tired of the life she was leading and wants to revolutionize it. It's a little too late for that, considering the fact that she has three kids–two of her own blood and one adopted–and a husband, but still my mom stubbornly refuses to let go of her fantasy. She still drags Ben to all our family outings, telling my father that Ben is terribly lonely and needs a family like ours to make him happy. I just wish my dad would say what he really thinks, which is probably along the lines of: "Screw Ben and his happiness. This is our family, not his, and he needs to butt the hell out."

My cell phone rang loudly, startling me from my thoughts. I crossed the room and picked up my pink RAZR, smiling at the name that was flashing across the screen. _Ashley Davies_.

"Hello," I answered. There was a stretch of silence on the other end, some muffled banging and then the sound of uproarious laughter.

"Yo, Carlin!" came a male voice across the line.

Frowning, I keep my tone cool as I reply, "Hello, Aiden. Any particular reason for the call?"

Another long silence and then a brief shuffling noise and some hushed whispering. Finally, Ashley's sweet voice vibrates throatily against my ear. "Hey," she says huskily, "sorry about that. Aiden was just leaving." More scuffling and then the sound of something being dropped. I've heard enough, and I close my phone shut with a loud snap.

Sitting there on my bed for a moment, I consider my options. Before I've really even begun to sort through the reasons why Aiden might be with Ashley, my phone rings again. I let it ring four or five times, trying to make my point before I answer again with a completely frigid, "yes?"

"Hey," Ashley says quickly, "what's with the hang up?"

I debate on just how I am going to answer her. All I can manage to do is squeak out, "Why is Aiden there?"

More silence. She's thinking. Why does she even have to think? Why can't she just tell me the truth? She told me once that dating her would never be easy, and she had been so right. "Because," she says slowly, "he's–uh–well, I needed someone to talk to."

"Oh?" It's more of a grunt than a word. It's gotten so hard to talk to Ashley. It's always 'Aiden this' and 'Aiden that'–it's getting to the point where I wonder why she's dating me instead of him.

"Yeah." She's quiet. She doesn't know what to say. Ashley always has something funny or random to lament about, but she can sense my distress and her silence is her way of apologizing. She sighs softly and I know that she really wants to tell me exactly how she feels but she really doesn't know how to, and I don't think she ever will. She seems to have figured out how to tell Aiden though, I think bitterly.

I echo her sigh and then say, "Look, I have to go. Mom's going to be home soon, so I should–"

"Since when have you ever been afraid to talk to me in front of your mom?" She interrupts me. "Is there something going on? Why do you sound so – so weird?" That's Ashley for: _what's wrong?_

I play with a loose thread on my bedspread for a moment, my head tilting to one side and my silken strands of honey-colored hair cascading to hide my face from view. If she had been here with me now, I know she would have forced me to look at her. She knows I can't lie to her if we're locked in a stare–blue upon brown in a surprising display of glittering wills. I almost crumble but then I say, "Nothing. Nothing's wrong. I'm just surprised that Aiden was with you, that's all."

"Did something happen with your parents?" She ignores the Aiden comment. Typical Ashley– ignore our problems and highlight someone else's.

"No," I say quickly. Too quickly. I can hear her shaking her head. "Well, er–yes." I admit, albeit a bit unwillingly. "My dad and I had some words. He wanted me to watch some stupid program on the news and I went off on him."

"You went off on him?" She sounds a little surprised.

I roll my eyes and say, "I do have a backbone, you know. It just takes a lot to make me use it."

"I know, I know. I still can't believe you beat the crap out of Glen when you were six. That was the best home video since Paris Hilton's sex tape. Watching you scissor kick Blondie until he begged for mercy has got to be one of my favorite moments in history."

I giggle.

My mom had once suggested we watch some old family videos to reconnect. The first one she chose was marked 'Spencer and Glen: For Dr. King', which we all thought was the video of my brother and I reciting a speech on Martin Luther King day. As it turns out, it was a video taken for our old therapist, Dr. King, back in Ohio of me showing what happens when you mess with my Barbie dolls one too many times.

We didn't watch anymore videos after that. Glen had run up to his room, refusing to meet my eye, and hadn't come down at all that night. I made the mistake of showing Ashley the tape and she never misses a chance to tease him mercilessly about it.

"Oh be nice, it wasn't his fault he was all drugged out on ADD medication in his preteen years." I roll my eyes. My parents seemed to think that the answer to everyone's problems lurked in the form of pills or therapy. So far, neither had helped my family. Perhaps it was time for a new strategy.

There is a soft knock at my door, and I look up.

"Spencer," says my father from the other side of white wooden door, "can we talk?"

"Hey Ashley," I whisper, "can you hold on? My dad wants to talk."

She giggles. "Uh-oh, King Arthur the biggest whimp in history has come to beg for his daughter's forgiveness."

"Shut up," I say quickly, "I'll talk to you in like five minutes."

"Okay."

- - - -

The talk with my dad lasted longer than five minutes. It lasted longer than an hour actually. When I got back to my phone, I was surprised to see that Ashley was still on the line. Picking it up and reaching for my charger since my phone was dying–stupid piece of junk–I fumble around with the plug for about thirty seconds. Why do electronics have to be so god-damn complicated?

"Hello?"

_Ashley_. Probably wondering what the hell I was doing, I think with a soft smile.

"Hey," I say quickly, trying to reassure her that it was me and not Glen looking for phone numbers again. My brother loved to raid my phone and search for 'Hot Girls' Numbers' according to him. Personally, I think he's just trying to read my texts. "Sorry it took so long. My dad kept apologizing and going all teary-eyed."

She snorts. "Did he threaten rehab again?"

"No," I say, "he's checking himself in tomorrow."

"_What?_ Holy shit! What about your Mom? Oh my god!"

My thoughts exactly.

- - - -

Dinner that night was awkward. My mother kept looking suspiciously at my dad until he finally said tiredly, "Paula dear, I need to discuss something with you in the kitchen."

At once, my brothers snapped to attention. Clay's eyes fell onto me. He instantly read the look on my face and balled up his napkin with muted anger. He could tell my parents would not be talking about anything positive.

When both Dad and Mom had left the room, Clay and Glen instantly began to interrogate me. Well, Glen did the interrogating. Clay simply cocked his head, folded his arms, and waited.

"What the hell, Spencer?" Glen asked angrily. "What's going on now? Did you get another girlfriend or something?" He sneered nastily. Glen blamed my parents' problems on my relationship with Ashley. He couldn't possibly accept the fact that maybe Paula and Arthur Carlin just weren't suited.

I glared at Glen before responding, "No. It's nothing I did. Dad decided to check into rehab. He's leaving for CRI tomorrow."

CRI stood for Clarity Rehabilitation Institute. It had a great AA program according to dad.

"Damn, Spencer," Clay said, "why didn't you warn us?"

"I couldn't! He blind-sided me in my room and kept me up there until Mom came home."

"Fuck!" Glen whispered harshly as the sound of arguing broke out from the kitchen. I closed my eyes–another family dinner, another fight. When would it end? When would we be normal again?

I had no idea that things were about to get worse. Much worse. Tomorrow at school would mark the beginning of something bigger than my family's issues or my parents' marital problems.

_The Virus is coming_.

- - - -

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** If you haven't already guessed, this chapter takes place before the Virus really begins to affect daily life. In this story, you will see a lot of sub-plots that tie into the main plot. It'll be a little slow in the beginning–I have to introduce new characters and develop the old, canon ones–but I promise you someone will die soon. Mwhahahaha!

_COMING SOON:_ Someone will be infected with the virus. You love her, you hate her, but you can't help but admire her in uniform – can you guess who?

Always scheming,  
late edition


End file.
